


Paw-prints in the Snow

by nanazlovese



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Making Out, Neck Kissing, Sad Ending, general sexual sniffing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 16:24:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2074926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanazlovese/pseuds/nanazlovese
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack finds the identity of the Chesapeake Ripper, and warns Will to leave. But the snow is deepening and Will doesn't seem to have a choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paw-prints in the Snow

 

‘So the FBI has no further leads on the Chesapeake Ripper?’ Hannibal Lecter’s calm voice cut through the quiet of his office, all noise muffled by the falling snow outside. Will sat forwards in his chair, removing his glasses, and rubbed his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘No. Nothing yet.’ He replaced his glasses and looked at his psychiatrist. Hannibal’s eyes were as inscrutable as ever, and he gazed cooly at Will. ‘How is Jack? I know he expects a lot of you.’ For a fleeting second, the two men made eye contact, before Will got suddenly to his feet, moving to Hannibal’s desk. Hannibal recognised the man’s discomfort and pushed the enquiry no further, instead merely watching him.

 

After a moment of silence, Hannibal also stood up. Adjusting his jacket, he once more addressed Will, who half turned at the sound of his voice. ‘I read a paper, years ago, which mentioned psychotic behaviour very similar to that of the Ripper. I believe I still have a copy. Would you like me to find it?’

‘Uh, yes – yes please. That would be – interesting.’ Will replied. Hannibal was already moving toward the ladder that led to the upper floor of his office. As he began to climb, Will gently leafed through the drawings piled on a table.

 

Will lifted a heap of the drawings aside, finding a particularly beautiful architectural sketch and taking a moment to examine it closely. He felt a vibration in his pocket and straightened. Pulling out his phone, he noted the caller ID: Jack Crawford, and answered.

‘Will.’ Jack’s voice was tense, tired, but urgent. It made Will feel as if all the room’s atoms simultaneously moved closer to him. ‘Are you with Dr. Lecter?’ Will noted the strange choice of name; Jack almost always called him Hannibal. A moment of silence and he asked again.

‘Will! Are you with Dr. Lecter?’ Will stuttered into life. Checking behind him for Hannibal, he pushed the receiver closer to his mouth and replied in a low voice ‘Yes.’ He heard Jack sigh – a measured and controlled exhalation.

‘In his office?’

‘Yes.’

‘I need you to get out. Make an excuse and leave. But do not let him know there is anything wrong.’

‘What’s happening?’

‘We’re on our way.’

‘Jack –’

But Jack had hung up. Will sighed shakily, his mind racing. He began to turn, only to find Hannibal at his shoulder. He jumped conspicuously. Hannibal was looking deep into his eyes; it felt to Will as if he was looking right into his soul, and though Hannibal’s expression was one of concern, Will could feel the underlying threat like an unknown depth of water behind his emotionless eyes.

 

Hannibal was the first to speak. ‘That was Jack Crawford. Is everything alright?’ Will had to work to supress the tremor in his voice. ‘Yes.’ A moment of silence. Will found himself wondering if Hannibal could have heard the conversation; how long had he been standing behind him? ‘But – uh – I should really…’ He trailed off. Hannibal was just staring at him. Will gestured towards his coat. ‘The – the snow. I –’ Hannibal interrupted him. ‘The snow is too deep, and still falling. You will not make it back to Wolftrap now.’ There was a strange quality to the words, the latent threat under concerned pretence. Jack’s words echoed in Will’s head: _do not let him know there is anything wrong_. Will looked for a moment towards the window. He could see the snow still swirling down in frozen wreaths.

‘Yeah. You’re… you’re probably right.’

‘However, we cannot stay here.’ It was almost a question. Will looked around and shook his head non-committaly. ‘So,’ continued Hannibal ‘I would like to invite you to sleep at my house. Just for tonight – tomorrow morning the ploughs will have cleared the streets and you may return home.’ Seeing Will’s unsure expression, the beginnings of polite refusal, Hannibal added ‘I have multiple guest bedrooms; you may take your pick.’

 

Will’s mind raced. He frantically searched for a reason to excuse himself. If Hannibal had overheard Jack’s warning then he would know that Jack was on his way here and therefore would want to leave. If he hadn’t, Will’s stubborn refusal would merely appear uncharacteristically rude and could even alert Hannibal to Jack’s impending arrival. Either way, Will would have to go with Hannibal. Jack could easily work out where Hannibal would go. All Will needed to do was keep him at his home until Jack could arrive. He ducked his head, nodding assent. Hannibal smiled slightly. ‘Good. Get your coat and let us go before the snow becomes too deep.’

 

Will had visited his therapist’s house only once before, and that evening seemed like a world away now. As they climbed the few steps, Will found himself noting tiny details in the scenery; a delicate trail of cat’s prints in the fresh snow, an overloaded leaf dropping its burden onto the snow-cleared path, and he felt a sense of foreboding, as the cavernous doorway swallowed them into its dark interior. He was quick to hide his unease as Hannibal took his coat and scarf, hanging them carefully by the door, and he couldn’t help but notice how conspicuous his scruffy clothes looked next to Hannibal’s immaculate décor. Will allowed himself to be led through to the kitchen, where Hannibal proceeded to busy himself around him. As he accepted a glass of wine, he desperately searched the other man’s eyes for some clue; hadhe heard Jack? Did he know the FBI were on their way? And if not, what would be Will’s best method of occupying him until they arrived? His mind was racing as he leant against the cool of the marble work-top, so much so that he didn’t hear Hannibal’s voice from the other side of the kitchen. The sound cut through his thoughts: ‘Will?’ He quickly rearranged his features, pushing his glasses up his nose and blinking. After a moment’s pause, Hannibal repeated his question: ‘Will, would you prefer lamb, or pork?’ Will suddenly realised how hungry he was. ‘Uh – I’m not a connoisseur of red meat; I’ll have to’ he paused, searching for the right word ‘defer to your better judgement.’ Hannibal nodded thoughtfully, before replacing one carefully wrapped parcel of meat in the fridge. Smiling darkly at Will as he moved fluidly across the kitchen, Hannibal spoke: ‘In that case, pork it is.’

 

By the time they sat down to eat, almost two hours had elapsed, and Will’s stomach was rumbling, despite his nervous fear. When he had insisted Hannibal did not need to craft such elaborate dishes on his account, his therapist had merely looked up at him, holding his gaze, and the brief flash of painful emotion in his eyes had shaken Will into silence for the next ten minutes. He had looked, thought Will as he sat down, almost regretful, as if remembering a lost child or lover, with whom he knew he had failed to spend enough time.

 

Conversation over food was friendly and courteous, but throughout the meal Will caught repeated glimpses of this other side to Hannibal. His gaze lingered too long on Will after a shared joke, his eyes turning sad, he glanced repeatedly at the clock, his habitual cool exterior fractured by uncharacteristic indecisive energy. And suddenly, with a sickening vertigo, Will understood. Hannibal knew. Will put down his fork. The food was undeniably delicious but his throat felt constricted and his mouth dry, nausea yawning in the pit of his stomach. He swallowed hard. Closed his eyes. When he opened them again, Hannibal was carefully observing him over the rim of his wine glass as he sipped. Tasting the wine and swallowing, he enquired: ‘Is something wrong, Will? I hope you are not feeling unwell.’ Will swallowed again, shaking his head. His skin prickled. _Do not let him know there is anything wrong._ Will picked up his fork once more. As it moved towards his mouth, thoughts of poison flashed through his mind. Hannibal’s eyes tracked the food and Will chewed slowly, frantically mentally searching for a way out. If Hannibal knew Jack was coming, why was he still here? He could have killed Will and been long gone by now. The thought made Will’s stomach clench but there was something comforting in the abstract logic of it – the bald acceptance of possible death. Will’s mind cleared and he realised: the only explanation was that he didn’t want to have to do it. Hannibal wasn’t sure precisely what Will knew. He was playing the same game in the dark as Will, and he had grown attached. Perhaps in time the emotionally distant Hannibal would regain control, but for now, Will’s only hope was to play Hannibal’s affection to his advantage.

 

Rousing Will suddenly from his reverie, Hannibal stood up. At once his imposing height over Will made him doubt his logic, but a flash of that same regret in Hannibal’s eyes spurred him on. ‘I am going to prepare dessert. Would you care to join me? I would appreciate the company.’ Will nodded and stood, following Hannibal into the kitchen. Hannibal moved quickly to the fridge, Will following behind. Hannibal spoke into it as he searched the cold interior. ‘I am afraid I have been very rude. I was not prepared to cook for two.’ Will began to shrug, assuring Hannibal it was fine, but the other man continued. ‘However, we could share my dessert.’ He removed from the fridge a small bowl, sitting in the centre of a much larger plate, and a glass jug containing a dark red liquid.

‘Italian Panacotta,’ Hannibal explained as he carried them to the workbench. ‘With a brandy and winter fruit coulis. Perfect for these cold Baltimore nights.’ As he said this, Hannibal upended the bowl, carefully lifting it to reveal the smooth white dessert. He looked up at Will from where he was bent over the food. The glint in his eyes was separate again from what Will was used to, and a mischievous smile played across his lips. Will returned it with a nervous smile of his own, quickly breaking eye contact. Hannibal straightened, assessing his work. ‘I would prefer not to have to cut it before serving. Appearance has an enormous effect on taste. Would you mind sharing the plate?’ Will shook his head quickly. It ruled out the possibility of poisoning and meant his nervous nausea was not such a problem. ‘In that case…’ Picking up the plate, Hannibal motioned to Will to return to the dining room. As Will took a seat, Hannibal placed the plate on the table, and unbuttoning his jacket with one hand he joined his guest.

 

The food was shared largely in silence, Hannibal appreciating the fine taste and Will fighting to stay calm. It had been hours since Jack had called. Why weren’t the FBI here? What could have delayed them like this? His helplessness became impotent anger at Jack, which in turn brought him closer to Hannibal. Will found himself leaning in towards the other man, relishing the cool of his breath on his own hot skin. The quiet was palpably thick, both men acutely aware of the other and the intriguing potential therein. Will remained focussed on the plate, but before long he could feel Hannibal’s eyes on his face. He looked up, hesitating before making eye contact. Hannibal’s eyes were unreadable and Will shrunk away inside himself, sure that the game was up; Hannibal’s feelings had been reined in. But as Will broke the contact, shuffling shakily backwards in his chair, Hannibal moved forwards. His lips were millimetres away from Will’s and he remained there, savouring the sensory cocktail of Will’s nervous energy, eyes closed, breathing slow. Will’s heart pounded in his head. Hannibal moved his lips past Will’s chin and down his neck, never quite making contact. Will visualised sparks jumping between them as he dropped his head back, exposing the delicate white skin of his neck to Hannibal. His breathing became ragged as Hannibal tilted his head, gently using his tongue to trace the line of Will’s collarbone. Will let out a muffled noise, a sigh of pleasure as he gave in to the power this man had over his body. Hearing this, Hannibal pulled away, eliciting a whine more canine than human from Will. ‘Would you like to go upstairs, Will?’ Hannibal’s eyes were dark and lustful, and Will could do nothing more than gulp and nod shakily.

 

As he climbed the stairs, Will tried to regain control of his mind. But he had been starved of human affection for too long (dogs a poor substitute in some respects), and he already felt steeped in lust, all fear dissolved into a most basic animal cry for warmth, regardless of the consequences. He could sense Hannibal following him up the stairs, though his steps were all but silent, his measured breathing a stark contrast to Will’s harsh quick gasps. Hannibal remained courteous and calm, directing Will in an absurdly composed voice to what appeared to be the master bedroom and gesturing for him to enter. Will quickly found his way to the bed in the dark, the moonlight slanting in through the bay windows just bright enough. Hannibal was with him in an instant, hands working quickly and deftly to unbutton his shirt, pushing him down onto the soft mattress, lips working hungrily against his. Will reached up to undo Hannibal’s buttons, but the combination of adrenaline and oxytocin coursing through his veins made his hands shake and he fumbled uselessly at the crisp white shirt. Hannibal did not seem to mind, however, without breaking the kiss, he reached down and released the buttons with one hand.

 

Leaning up on his elbows, Will shuffled up the bed, leaving his shirt behind, and Hannibal followed him until Will was leaning up against the headboard, the contact never once broken, running between them like a lifeline to which Will clung. Neither man spoke; to exchange words would be to break the spell and reasoning dimly told Will that to break the spell would be to ask for death, though that was not why he stayed silent.

 

Hannibal was strong and his warm weight pressed down on Will, but his kiss suddenly became gentle. Before Will had time to react he felt a strong hand at his throat, and instinct kicked in, making him jerk backwards. But instead of escaping the grip, he only hit his head, making it throb hotly. Will was pinned down by Hannibal’s weight and tight strength, and though his thrashing became more violent and frantic, he remained impotently trapped. Hannibal was still kissing him, though the kiss was now slow and lingering, the pressure and firmness gone. Will tried to speak – to talk to Hannibal – convince him he knew nothing – would go with him – whatever it would take – but his pleas became only muffled consonants. Hannibal pulled away slightly, holding his head to one side as if listening, though keeping the grip on Will’s throat tight. Will could feel the pressure building in his head, as if all the blood in his body was determined to flow in though it couldn’t escape again. His limbs were becoming weaker. Hannibal’s breathing was slow and controlled, and it faded into the ringing noise in Will’s ears as his eyes began to close. He found himself thinking of the house, how he had come in never to leave. His coat, looking absurdly out of place. Cat’s paw prints in fresh snow. Animal excitement when he joined in the dogs’ games. One children’s book so terrifying he had never touched it. The oily smell of his father’s hands. Abigail’s flower patterned scarf against her dark hair. Antlers. Angels. A life that had mostly been spent alone; a strange child and a stranger man. As wriggling grey crept in from the edge of his vision Will watched the light curtains rippling and was aware of wondering if this was it; a big fat cut to black, just as Alana had said and even as he choked he pictured Alana somewhere out there right now and, though he could not see it in the dark, when Hannibal eventually removed his hand a single tear had left Will’s glazed left eye and rolled down his cooling cheek.

 

  Exactly seven minutes later, an FBI team led by Jack Crawford and including Beverly Katz approaches the dwelling of The Chesapeake Ripper. None of the team notice a trail of cats’ pawprints in the snow as they become obscured by the prints of heavy boots. Jack holds his gun close to his body and upright as he follows the team through the door. The house is eerily quiet. Shouts of ‘clear’ echo throughout it. The remains of a hastily abandoned meal are forgotten on the table. The team moves upstairs. The rooms are dark. In the master bedroom Beverly finds the prone body of Special Agent Will Graham. She thinks he is asleep until she sees the dark bruises blossoming on his neck. The team move on. They leave Beverly and Jack behind.  

 

Beverly kneels on the floor. Jack turns away from the man on the bed. He walks towards the windows and barely hears Beverly’s voice as she calls for medical assistance. The phrase ‘requesting ERT’ echoes in his ears. He looks out across the mass of sleeping Baltimore. The curtains ripple against him. Snow falls silently. Jack raises his face to the nights’ sky, and in that moment, he vows to find Dr. Hannibal Lecter, no matter the cost.

 


End file.
